Always
by Le Masque31
Summary: '"Mairon," he calls out, the stretch of his lips around the once-familiar syllables awkward and uncertain.' Melkor and Mairon are reunited sometime before the Dagor Dagorath. Done to death, I know, but I thought I'd throw my two cents in. Angbang, full of sappy OOC-ness and too many feelings. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

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><p>A chasm gapes open; light bursts through it, white and blinding and painful. He cringes; he jerks his head to the side, eyes screwing shut against the prickling of tears. And then, just as suddenly, darkness falls again.<p>

Slowly, ever so slowly, from the deeps of darkness and silence around him, sounds emerge; they seem loud and he cannot place them and he does not even know what they are. But then he remembers: breaths, they are, soft exhales that seem to be gathering pace; they grow shallower, more desperate, and a whimper bleeds through their edges.

He freezes; he knows that voice.

"Mairon?" he calls out, the stretch of his lips around the once-familiar syllables awkward and uncertain; to his own ears his voice sounds thick, creaky, as though burdened with the dust of millennia of disuse. He wets his lips to repeat the name, but regret bubbles up from the pit of his stomach like acid and spills mordant and bitter into his mouth, making him sink his teeth into his tongue to silence it. Mairon is not here. It does not do to dwell on phantoms, on dreams spun as a bulwark against insanity. Fear grips him then as that thought slices through him. Did he imagine the light, the breaths? Air seems to rush out of him, lungs inflating painfully, and he remembers that there is no air, that he does not need air, but still he cannot tell, cannot be sure …

A gasp; then footsteps. With a tremendous effort, he shakes himself back into full awareness. He could not possibly have imagined it. He feels more than sees the figure dropping to its knees before him, and with a cold prick of shock he realizes that he has lain sprawled on the ground.

"Master?"

His eyelids flutter shut then. He feels wetness trickle down his cheeks as hot breath mingles with his own, as fingers so distinctly, so painfully Mairon's curl around his wrist, as that voice, deemed forgotten for so long, repeats its query, heavily, falteringly, as though his lieutenant has been crying.

He _is_ crying, Melkor realizes with a pang, as Mairon crumbles against his chest. His lieutenant is sobbing, and so is he, even as his arms shake off their stiffness to slide around the quivering body against him.

"Mairon," he sighs, and tightens his hold fractionally. Life has not been kind to his lieutenant—dreams crushed again and again, battered until limp and bloodless, but never quite abandoned; plans meticulously woven year after year through unnumbered ages of the world only to be ripped apart in one vicious, careless motion. But as Mairon's hot tears splash against his skin, a record of pain, of loneliness, he does not think of failure. From the burning glede of happiness within him arises only the thought that it is good, it is right, to feel Mairon's body against his own; that life should have been like this, should always be like this, for, truly, what else does he need if he has those lovely auric eyes gazing up at him?

Stoking that little ball of giddy flame even higher, he strokes Mairon's cheek, thumb lingering upon his lips before he trails his hand upward to tuck a few errant strands of blond hair behind his ear.

"Mairon," he breathes again, the name sweet amid the salty tang of tears—a prayer uttered into the darkness, ghosting over wet cheeks. Gentle fingers tip the Maia's head upward. He looks haggard and pale and so very beautiful that his heart nearly thuds to a halt against his ribs. Golden eyes lock on his own, and at the watery, tentative smile curving his lieutenant's lips, he feels his own quirk upward in response.

"It is good to see you again," Mairon murmurs, and in his quavering voice, flickering upon his lips in ghostly outline, the unspoken words ring plain in Melkor's ears, seep like icy mist into his heart: _I thought I never would_.

And suddenly the mist writhes and moils, tangible and terrible, and shapes loom out of it. Suddenly they are back in Angband, and war rages around them, spurred on by the high, clear trumpet notes of the Valar—they quiver in the air, naked, shining sounds—the sky shivers and the mountain groans. Suddenly all those things he did not say—all those things he could not say—hurtle across the span of millennia and dangle from his lips. Dread and doubts lance through him as they lanced through him then—_over, it is all over, but I will not see you dead_—his lieutenant screaming, pleading with him, _do not ask this of me_—agony blistering through him from his burning hands as he strips Mairon of his body—relief and _he is safe_ thrumming through his veins as they come for him, and he feels how deeply the loss has cut, feels the hollow in his chest, the numbness in his limbs …

His lieutenant is blinking up at him, brow creased with concern, eyes flitting searchingly over his features, and he reaches up, cradles that lovely face between his palms—no thoughts, no thoughts at all, only the glowing flame within his chest leaping in assurance, because this is _right_; he touches his lips to Mairon's, and he feels the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek as the Maia's eyes slip shut, as for a moment they are still, not breathing, just tasting the sensation, savoring it like something rare and precious and fragile.

And then his lieutenant is mewling against his lips, arms coming up to clasp him about the shoulders, fingers threading through his hair and coaxing him closer. The body in his arms is melting against his own, so warm and pliant to the touch, and a moan rumbles in his chest as their lips meet more firmly, as his hands ruck up Mairon's tunic to caress the bare skin beneath. His tongue flicks playfully against the Maia's lips, its point teasingly poised over the seam, and they part fully in invitation. Their tongues slide over each other, and oh, he cannot get enough—the small, sweet moans half muffled against his mouth—the delight frolicking in his veins, transmuting into rills of liquid pleasure at the base of his stomach.

They break apart with a gasp, gossamer strands of saliva glistening upon their lips. Mairon is grinning up at him, something slightly hysterical tilting the corners of his mouth, and suddenly he finds himself with an armful of that lithe body curled into his chest, golden hair bouncing about his shoulders and tickling the bare skin of his throat. Laughter springs into the air; it seems to shimmer there, loud and erratic and so completely unexpected that Melkor cannot prevent his tiny snort from being elided into full-blown cachinnations.

He leans his head against the crown of his lieutenant's, the midnight spill of his hair swirling amid the gold, and he laughs. Millennia blur and dissipate, and he unbridles his feelings, setting them twirling and shining within him like dozens of merry stars—Mairon is here, body pressed so tightly against his own, and the shadows have shrugged off their horror, twining soft tendrils about them, leaping gaily over the glow of his lieutenant's eyes.

Amusement still purls in his chest a few moments later when Mairon, having fallen silent, nuzzles his face against the crook of his neck. He tangles his fingers in that gold-spun hair, and is rewarded with a delighted little sigh. Amid the quiet _thump thump thump_ of his lieutenant's heart against his chest, a contented smile curves his lips because—because—oh! He cradles the thought in the folds of his mind, not touching—no, not even gently. It is so very exquisite, so delicate that he can only watch it, unseen; watch it unfurl and smile, disarmingly simple, glimmering with the truth of its essence—a truth he shares with Mairon in a soft whisper that ruffles his blond curls, that wriggles into the space between their bodies and cajoles them even closer: "I love you."

The Maia presses his smile into a tender kiss against his throat. His lips graze his jaw, trailing upward to nibble at the sensitive skin just below his ear. It is almost lazy, as though they have all the time in the world. He feels the slow, sedate throb of his blood in his veins; he feels heat steal across his cheeks, tingeing them crimson; he feels affection swell into a trilling flame.

His lieutenant might have replied in kind, but the sentiment ripples across his mind, flows warm and steady into his chest to buoy his heart—he cannot tell whether it was spoken aloud; whether its filigree filaments draped over the void between their thoughts to link their minds. But Mairon leans in, winds his arms about his waist, and suddenly it does not matter anymore, for it is true, it has always been true.

"Stay with me," his lieutenant whispers, and he hears the plea interlaced with the softness of his tone; he hears the edge lurking there, the despair and the emptiness. So his hold grows more secure—_I will not let you go again_—and his kiss is firm and reassuring.

"Always," he promises, holding Mairon's gaze, threading their fingers together. "I will always stay with you."


End file.
